‘Down!’ he snarled, gesturing. ‘Lie down!’ The man obeyed. The blood mist cleared from Kydd’s brain and he snatched a glance around him. As quickly as it had started the brutal fight was ending. In the launch the three or four Frenchmen who had boarded were dead or giving up, and the bulk of the British were in the chaloupe, forcing back the remainder. The end was not far away.
‘Tell ’em t’ lie down!’ he yelled. ‘Don’t let the bastards move an inch!’
High-pitched shouts came from the French boat; they were yielding. Kydd felt reason slowly return to cool his passions. He took a deep breath. ‘Secure the boats t’gether,’ he ordered, the bloodstained cutlass still in his hands.
His body trembled and he had an overpowering urge to rest, but the men looked to him for orders. He forced his mind to work. ‘Poulden, into th’ Frogs’ boat and load the swivel.’ The petty-officer gunner was nowhere to be seen – he’d probably not survived.
While Poulden clambered over the thwarts and found powder and shot, Kydd looked around. There was blood everywhere, but he was experienced enough in combat to know that just a pint looked mortal. The wounded men were being laid together in the widest part of the launch as Pybus climbed back in. When he caught Kydd’s eyes on him, he defiantly handed over a tomahawk – bloodied, Kydd noted.
At Poulden’s call, the French were herded weaponless back into their chaloupe and the swivel brought round inside to menace the boat point-blank. ‘Hey, you, Mongseer!’ Kydd’s exasperated shout was lost on the sullen men in the boat. He turned to his own boat. ‘Any o’ you men speak French?’
The baffled silence meant he would have to lose dignity in pantomime, but then he turned to the midshipman. ‘Rawson! Tell ’em they’ll be hove overside if they make any kind o’ false move.’ Let him make a fool of himself.
Kydd realised he was still clutching his cutlass, and laid it down, sitting again at the tiller. His hip throbbed and his head gave intermittent blinding stabs of pain; it was time to return to Tenacious and blessed rest. He would secure the Frenchy with a short towline; they could then row themselves close behind under the muzzle of the swivel. He would send another three men to stand by Poulden.
Pybus was busy with the men in the bottom of the boat. ‘So, we go home,’ Kydd said, searching around for the compass. ‘Now do ye remember what course . . .’
Ashen-faced, Rawson held out a splintered box and the ruins of a compass card. With an icy heart Kydd saw that their future was damned. The wall of dull white fog pressed dense and featureless wherever he looked, no hazy disc of sun, no more than a ripple to betray wave direction. All sense of direction had been lost in the fight and there was now not a single navigation indicator of even the most elementary form to ensure they did not lose themselves in the vast wastes of the Atlantic or end a broken wreck on the cold, lonely Newfoundland cliffs.
Kydd saw the hostility in the expressions of his men: they knew the chances of choosing the one and only safe course. He turned to Rawson. ‘Get aboard an’ find the Frenchy’s compass,’ he said savagely.
The midshipman pulled the boats together and clambered into the chaloupe. In the sternsheets the man Kydd had bested held up the compass. Rawson raised his hand in acknowledgement, and made his way aft. Then, staring over the distance at Kydd with a terrible intensity, the Frenchman deliberately dropped the compass box into the water just before Rawson reached him.
Disbelieving gasps were followed by roars of fury, and the launch rocked as men scrambled to their feet in rage. ‘We’ll scrag the fucker! Get ’im!’ Poulden fingered the swivel nervously: if they boarded he would no longer have a clear field of fire.
‘Stand down, y’ mewling lubbers!’ Kydd roared. ‘Poulden! No one allowed t’ board the Frenchy.’ He spotted Soulter, the quartermaster, sitting on the small transverse windlass forward. ‘Soulter, that’s your division forrard,’ he said loudly, encompassing half the men with a wave. ‘You’re responsible t’ me they’re in good fightin’ order, not bitchin’ like a parcel of old women.’
‘Sir?’ The dark-featured Laffin levered himself above the level of the thwarts from the bottom boards where he had been treated for a neck wound.
‘Thank ’ee, Laffin,’ Kydd said, trying to hide his gratitude. If it came to an ugly situation the boatswain’s mate would prove invaluable.
‘We’ll square away now, I believe. All useless lumber over the side, wounded t’ Mr Pybus.’ Smashed oars, splintered gratings and other bits splashed into the water.